Writing Preview (Work In Progress)

Here's the (very rough) beginning of a story that came out of my writing workshop. More to come, swear... :)

Just Like You
by David Scott




Malcolm Landry, nervous at all times except when he was hiding behind a podium, reached into his pocket, feverishly, sweat forming on his brow, between his fingers, and God knows where else, and fingered his pocketknife. He thought about using it, wanted to use it, but, being surrounded by the throng he couldn’t. That was one of those inappropriate activities. In-appro-pri-ate, a voice sing-songed inside his head. “Shut up, already,” he whispered underneath his breath.

“Excuse me?” the girl asked, her smile an infuriating mixture of sweetness and intractability. She didn’t walk up to him, she glided, her hand outstretched. She actually zeroed in on him like a Scud, wanting to shake his hand. Everything about her seemed to be a portrait of symmetry. Malcolm sized her up. She looked old enough to drink (just barely), but she didn’t look like some college-age kegger enthusiast. Oh, no, that would be too easy. Her hair was blonde, smooth, and shoulder-length—a real shampoo commercial. She wore these nutty black granny glasses complete with a nylon cord from one end to the other. Her skin was unblemished and she wore minimal make-up. It was a testament to her awareness of her aesthetic charms. Too much make-up would just be showing off. Contacts, or God forbid, normal frames, would be pushing it. Artsy, ironic frames proclaimed to the world that yes, she was much more than her stunning good looks. Her ecru blouse featured a pink ribbon pinned just above her right breast, which infuriated Malcolm because he was sure it was some sort of feminist trap to draw his attention to her chest. Her skirt was a black and white checkerboard print that reached to her knees. She wore stylish black boots with a modest heel. And somehow she glided in them. All to shake hands with *him*. To prove what? That she wasn’t some Banana Republic mannequin? That she believed in charity and good works? Malcolm recoiled, his heart pounding. It was just too much. He wished she didn’t look so nice, so well-adjusted. Then at the very least, it’d be easy to dismiss her as yet another stuck-up sorority bimbo.

“I’m sorry, did you say something?” she asked, finally releasing her smile. Malcolm waited a few seconds and looked impulsively at his watch. Her hand was still outstretched. He shook it limply and quickly released it.

“I, uh,” he said, looking at her earrings. They looked like little wind chimes. Little turquoise wind chimes. They so did not go with the outfit. They looked horribly tacky, actually. Must of have been a gift. He smiled, feeling more comfortable that he had found a weakness. She was human after all. “I like your earrings,” he managed.

“Oh, thank you,” she smiled, her thin fingers brushing up against them. “My boyfriend—I mean, my fiancé—bought them for me. I got to get used to saying that. Fiancé!” Her eyes drifted shyly away from Malcolm as she realized she was offering too much personal information to a man she did not know. He surely didn’t care about her upcoming nuptials.

He did care. It sickened him, in fact. He realized that a pretty girl could not possibly have any interest in him; he realized that and accepted that. Still, did females have to approach him and remind him of how happy they were doing in their personal relationships, dating, fornicating, getting married, popping out children, etc? What kind of sick bitch would go around, finding lonely, insecure nobodies, and harangue them… torture them, remind them of how singularly alone they were. “I exist for other peoples’ amusement,” Malcolm thought dispiritedly.

“Congratulations,” Malcolm said, managing a smile. It pleased him to be ironic. It was the only way to salvage the situation.

She smiled, almost like a little girl, unaware of Malcolm’s insincerity. “Thanks. We’re so excited.” She stopped, afraid of being boring. “I just wanted to thank you. For the speech. I’m totally against war, especially this one, as we are there under false pretenses… And dissent nowadays is being portrayed as disloyalty… So when someone is brave enough to not only speak out, to organize this rally—“She waved her hand across the modest meeting room, which was now empty except for her and Malcolm. “And then… your vow… I mean, wow, I couldn’t believe it. I mean, I couldn’t do that.”

Malcolm swallowed. Praise made him uneasy. He was sure that it would take very little to reverse a positive opinion concerning him. And while he was proud of his vow, it was uncomfortable to talk about on a one-on-one basis. In front of a crowd seemed safer… depersonalized… He was safe behind the podium. He could say the things he really wanted to say.

He absent-mindedly took a few steps back. “Thank you. It hasn’t been easy. There’s been a lot of ridicule—“

“I know,” the girl responded, sympathy in her voice. “People can be so mean. And we live in such a sexualized society, anyways… that’s got to make it tough.”

Malcolm did not look at her breast cancer awareness ribbon, but he thought about it as he looked at a pink balloon lazily hovering by the exit. “Yes,” he said, clearing his throat. That’s how I got on Good Morning America—“

“I saw that!”

Malcolm felt embarrassed. “It’s not everyday you end up telling Diane Sawyer and the rest of suburban America that you’re a 26 year old virgin who refuses to have sex until U.S. forces are completely withdrawn from Iraq.”

The girl started to laugh, mistaking Malcolm’s forwardness with humor. He stared at her stoically, used to such reactions. “Yeah, you’re right there,” she added. Her face switched to activist mode. “But I admire that, Malcolm.”

“Thank you,” he said dryly, trailing off.

“Karen… my name is Karen.”

I have to say her name now. This is what people do in polite conversation. Then I get to leave and replay this horrible scene over and over in my mind until the day I die. “Karen… thank you for the kind words, Karen.”

To be continued...